"Then what _is_ a daisy?
What is it really?"
She was "expecting" vividly. Her mind was hungry for essentials. This
mere description told her nothing real. She wanted to feel "direct."
What is a daisy? The little word already had a wonderful and living
sound--soft, sweet, and beautiful. But to tell the truth about this
ordinary masterpiece was no easy matter. An ostentatious lily, a
blazing rose, a wayward hyacinth, a mass of showy wisteria--
advertised, notorious flowers--presented fewer difficulties. A daisy
seemed too simple to be told, its mystery and honour too humble for
proud human minds to understand. So he answered gently, while a Marble
White sailed past between their very faces: "Let's think about it
hard; perhaps we'll get it that way."
The butterfly sailed off across the lawn; another joined it, and then
a third. They danced and flitted like winged marionettes on wires that
the swallows tweaked; and, as they vanished, a breath of scented air
stole round the trunk of the big lime tree and stirred the daisies'
heads. A thousand small white faces turned towards them; a thousand
steady eyes observed them; a thousand slender necks were bent.
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